Maybe this was about stress, not sex, and he hadn’t put Afghanistan behind him.
As the woman headed down the street, she didn’t look in his direction once. Trace took a deep breath. It was time to go. He glanced toward his destination, checking the address through pale, trailing fingers of fog.
Down the street he saw the truck turn, ladder creaking. One of the metal restraints twisted and broke free, the metal frame shuddering violently.
The woman and her friend hadn’t noticed.
He moved by pure instinct, his heart pounding as he sprinted through a gap in traffic. Neither the woman nor her companion heard his shout as they turned toward the nearby hotel, their boxes held tightly at their chests.
Trace jumped the curb, shoved the woman sideways against a wall, and pushed her companion after her just before the ladder swung horizontal across the sidewalk. Its broken edge was a death blade cutting directly over the place the two had stood laughing a second before.
“Hey, watch it.” The woman slammed him hard with her shoulder, muttering angrily. Then she slipped, hit her companion and both of them lost their balance.
Trace saw the two white boxes fly into the air. He stepped back, twisted neatly and caught one in each hand.
A bicycle messenger shot past, making a string of obscene gestures, and the woman with the cinnamon hair shoved at his chest.
“Drop those and you’re dead. Big, clumsy ox.” She tried to grab one of the boxes. “Give me that now or I’m calling the cops.”
Trace frowned at her. Why didn’t people say thanks when you’d just saved them from death by sudden impalement?
He turned, pushing her back against the building and out of the way of the still-swaying ladder, while the truck bounced back down the curb. A man in a gray uniform jumped out and tugged at the broken hinges, trying to pull the metal sections back into place.
The woman turned, looking over Trace’s shoulder. Her face paled, her body going still. “Shit.” She swayed a little, not struggling against him now.
Her eyes locked on the truck bed. “Holy, holy hell,” she whispered. “The ladder would have hit us. I didn’t see.” She took a deep breath, one hand shaking against the wall. She brushed a layer of cinnamon hair from her face while her hands shook harder than ever. “You aren’t crazy.” Her voice hitched. “You saved our lives.”
“Are you okay?” He balanced the boxes, feeling her thighs press against him. The subtle friction made his mouth go dry.
“I’m fine.” She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was rude. I didn’t realize what was happening.” She studied his face. “We see a lot of Navy guys in San Francisco. I thought you were just being a jerk.”
Her voice was breathy, smokey like a good chipotle sauce.
Trace felt her hand on his sleeve. He didn’t know her, would never know her, but the husky catch in her voice was as tempting as the slim, strong legs he felt brushing his.
Strangers or not, he wanted her bad.
Angry, he bit back a curse and moved away, banking the heat. Trying to bank the heat.
She looked at her friend. “Andreas, why don’t you go check out the room? No surprises, please.”
“Sure thing, boss. I’ll take this with me.” The man deftly removed one of the packages from Trace’s hands and left.
“I’ll take the other box now.”
Trace looked down, feeling stupid as he gripped the white cardboard. “Must be something pretty important in here.”
Her smile felt like pure, distilled summer pouring over his skin. The force of it made him forget the cars racing past and the appointment creeping closer.
“You bet it is. You’re holding a little piece of my heart in that box.”
“Maybe I should keep it then.” His voice was gravelly. Hell, what had made him say something lame like that?
“News flash—men want sex, not women’s hearts.” She straightened her big, colorful sweater and shoved more cinnamon hair out of her eyes, then stared across the street. “Oops. My defensive, bitchy side is showing.”
Trace heard old wounds and bad memories rather than bitchiness. “What’s so important in here?” He raised the box, rattled it slightly.
She lunged, panic sweeping her face. “No. If you drop that, I’m dead.”
Trace simply smiled. He handled high explosives and deadly biotoxins regularly with complete confidence. Steady hands and split-second reaction times were part of his skill set. “Relax, your box isn’t going anywhere. You still haven’t told me why it’s so important.”
“I need to go. I can’t be late.”
Before she could answer, his cell phone vibrated against his belt with unavoidable force, yanking Trace back to earth. He muffled a curse as he realized the pocket was out of reach.
He started to hand over the box, but she leaned down and slid a hand into his pocket. His gaze never left her face as she pulled out the phone.
“Least I can do,” she murmured, opening the phone. Frowning, she stared at the complex screen of Trace’s new government prototype. “How do you—”
“Top left. I’ll take it.”
Instead of giving him the phone, she pressed the button he’d indicated and held the phone up to this ear.
Trace had seen the caller’s number. Wolfe was probably upstairs waiting for him. Still, he didn’t like anyone listening in to the call. “Look, I need to—”
“Take the call. I can see that your shoulder hurts, so as soon as you’re done, I’ll get going.”
Shoulder?
How the hell had she known that?
Another twinge of suspicion made him study her warily.
But the phone was already at his ear, and he heard Wolfe’s voice.
“O’Halloran, are you at the hotel?”
“Right outside, sir.”
“I got held up on a conference call. I’m at least ten minutes away. Go in and press some flesh until I get there.”
“Will do.”
The line went dead and she closed the phone, returning it to his pocket.
Their skin brushed. He smelled her perfume, a faint mix of oranges and lilac. As gentle as a memory, it slid over his senses, leaving him restless for things he didn’t have a name for.
She turned and lifted the white box. “It’s a cake, by the way. I’m giving a class upstairs in thirty minutes.”
“A cake?”
